


Standard Deviations

by merpl, Selcouth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Slytherin!Harry, nonGryffindor!Harry, unfortunatelyslightlyOOCHarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2017-12-11 15:16:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/800161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merpl/pseuds/merpl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selcouth/pseuds/Selcouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a different Harry Potter, one who discovers his magic a little earlier, and by virtue of having to hide it from the Dursleys, ends up becoming a little more cunning, a little more shrewd, a little more ambitious, a little more Slytherin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter was coauthored by my friend M, who I thank.
> 
> Edit: Terribly sorry, I uploaded the chapter from somewhere else and didn't even realize that I'd cut off part of it. It's fixed now.

Eight rashers of bacon, three sausages, an egg, four buttered pieces of toast, a blueberry muffin or two, and a glass of orange juice for Dudley. Two of everything for Uncle Vernon, plus a mug of strong coffee, and a “healthier” Danish with a generous amount of butter for Aunt Petunia. And a cup of Earl Grey tea, since she sneered at the “disgusting foreignness” of chai.

That was Harry’s typical morning routine, and by now he knew it by heart. Harry’d gotten quite fast at preparing it, too, and he could usually sneak a couple pieces of bacon in addition to the usual apple and piece of unbuttered toast that was his own morning meal.

A gust of wind rattled the trees outside the window, and the sound of business class Surrey “traffic” -- Astons and German cars -- filled the air outside. But Harry couldn’t hear any of it over the sound of Uncle Vernon’s daily political tirade -- today, on “those damn liberal pansies, letting the lazy get handouts for nothing while us upstanding citizens get a pittance for our hard work.” 

Harry stuffed the remainder of his toast into his mouth and stood up, pushing his chair back. He returned to his cupboard, read a page of the newspaper he’d nicked from the rubbish, gathered the books his schoolteacher Mrs. Pocket had assigned, and stuffed them into Dudley’s old knapsack, making sure they didn’t fall out of the hole Dudley had torn in it after she assigned too much maths. As he reentered the kitchen, Uncle Vernon snapped, “Haven’t you forgotten something, boy? The trash needs to be taken out before you go running off to that library of yours. I won’t have our house being filthy just because you’re insistent on useless things."

Without a word, Harry pivoted and gathered up the trash bag from its basket, the rustling drowning out Vernon’s fading “Now boxing, there’s a sport for real boys. All this laying about and reading never did sit right with me....”

“I’ve done everything, Uncle Vernon.”

“Is Dudley’s lunch packed? With candy? You know Dudders likes his Werther’s. Growing boy,” he added, ruffling his son’s hair with pride. Harry stifled a snort -- “Dudders” now resembled a pig with a Mohawk -- and said “Yes, I told you I’ve done everything. Can I go?”

“Don’t be insolent with me, boy, and get back in time for lunch. I won’t have our meals being late. Healthy boys need their food on time,” Uncle Vernon said, apparently miffed at not being able to delay Harry’s presumed opportunity at happiness. It wasn’t happiness, not by a long shot, but the library was certainly where Harry got his peace, and was Dudley-free to boot: his cousin never touched a book if he could help it, though at age nine he could certainly read.

Harry headed straight to the fantasy section, running his finger along the shelf until he came to the L’s. His teacher had mentioned “A Wrinkle in Time” today, and Harry, hungry for new reading material, had noted the oddly French name “Madeleine L’Engle.” He rocked up on his tiptoes, squinting at the titles above his head. “Lenard, Lender, L’Engle. There.” He stretched upwards, to no avail - Harry had always been small for his age, and the book had ended up on the very top shelf. He peered round the shelf, contemplating asking the librarian -- though she always looked oddly at his too-large clothes -- but she was nowhere to be found. No help for it, then -- Harry gripped the edge of the shelf and pulled himself upwards, one foot seeking purchase on the bottom shelf. His other hand reached out and caught hold of the slim book, slotted it out, and then a nasal voice demanded “Is that you, Potter boy? Get off my shelf!”

Harry’s gripping hand let go in surprise, his trainer toe slipped off the shelf below, and Harry grasped furiously at the shelf as he teetered backwards, causing the metal bookcase to rock dangerously. Harry landed, took a deep breath, and gasped as the bookcase teetered, groaned, and began to fall, books sliding out and thumping to the ground. There was a moment of shock -- _I’m in so much trouble, so much trouble, I’ll never be able to come here again_ \-- and then, miraculously, all was as is. 

Harry looked up. There was the bookcase, stable, there was the librarian, looking dazed. Had he imagined it? -- but no, there was “A Wrinkle in Time” in his hand. What in the world had happened? Harry, for the first time in his life, was speechless.

The librarian in front of him shook her head for a moment and then, collecting herself, demanded, too sharply for her, “Do you want to borrow that book or not? I don’t have all day.” And Harry, shocked for a completely different reason, followed her meekly to the desk, the delight of the new book in his arms curiously muted by what had just happened. And then he noticed the time on his watch and, having scanned the book out, took off running for home.

Harry jogged rapidly down the street, the rhythmic thuds of the library book in his backpack reminding him of the happy reading he would be able to do later. He checked the watch on his wrist -- once Dudley’s until the strap had broken, but now, with a little mending, Harry’s -- and sped up his pace, thinking about the odd occurrence in the library. He was sure he’d climbed the shelf, because the book had been on top. He’d startled and slipped off when the librarian came, and the small bookcase had toppled with his moving weight. Yet a moment later all was well, and the book in his hand. He could find no explanation for it. Certainly he wouldn’t have been able to lift the bookcase back upright -- he was only nine (and a half!), after all, and small at that -- and he didn’t remember doing so. He’d heard of temporary amnesia, but only in cases of trauma -- Vernon’s second cousin had been injured in a construction accident and remembered nothing for three days -- and even if he’d suffered amnesia, what about the librarian? She would certainly have said something.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Harry nearly ran over Mrs. Figg, who was walking down the street with Mr. Wibbles. He got up, muttering apologies, and was about to continue when Mrs. Figg called “Harry! Wait a moment, tell your aunt Petunia I’m very sorry but I won’t be able to take you on Thursday, my niece is having a baby you see.” Harry nodded and set off again, only thinking, “Aunt Petunia won’t be happy with the short notice” before he arrived at the front door. 

Harry took a moment to catch his breath -- Uncle Vernon never liked to be disturbed by the sound of his _wretched gasps, can’t you leave a bit earlier, boy? You think your silly books are as important as a hard-earned meal for my family?_ \-- and stepped inside, glancing at the clock. He frowned. He’d arrived at the house with a minute to spare, even though he could’ve sworn it was exactly half two when he’d left Mrs. Figg. A lot of odd things seemed to be happening today, but he didn’t dwell on this one as Vernon shouted “What did I tell you about coming back late, boy,” as Harry walked in the door. “You know my Dudders likes his steak well-done.”

It was no use being snarky when Vernon was in a mood like this, so Harry moved off to the kitchen to prepare Dudley’s meal -- he didn’t want to consider the consequences if it was actually a minute late.

\------------------------------------

“Now remember, boy, don’t touch anything while we’re gone. Petunia’s set out a banana and some toast for you, stay in your cupboard and read those pansy books of yours or something. If I come home and find any, any _freaky stuff_ has happened -- ”

Harry mused, privately, that “freaky stuff” meant quite a bit more than it used to before the library incident. The Dursleys didn’t know that, of course, but it comforted Harry in an odd sort of way.

“Are you listening, boy? We’re taking a great risk leaving you alone like this, the Figg lady bailed at the last second -- unreliable bint --" "Language, Vernon!" "and I always said that boys - ”

At this point Petunia tugged on his arm and pointed to the clock, and Vernon turned, if possible, even purpler -- a dinner with the Director of Grunning’s Drills was not to be late to.

“You know the rules boy. Now in, in, and we’ll be back by eight. I want nothing disturbed, do you hear me, and I want your chores done, and if there’s a speck of dirt on the floors by the time we return -- ”

Vernon’s voice faded off as he waddled, still blustering, out the door and squeezed with difficulty into his car. The rumble of the engine signaled their departure, and Harry opened his cupboard door once again. 

Though it was the same house as usual, it felt freer without the Dursleys’ oppressing presence. Harry stretched, rolling his shoulders backwards, and stepped out, looking around. He could go and play on Dudley’s computer, or watch some television -- the channels he liked, for once -- or eat whatever he wanted. He could read in the living room instead of by flashlight in his cupboard. He dithered for a moment, and headed for the kitchen, slipping a slice of “premium” ham out of the refrigerator and thickly buttering toast before assembling a sandwich. He stuck a finger into a jar of jam for good measure, and, finger still jam-coated and sandwich in tow, headed for the living room to watch TV.

A good three hours later, having finished his first sandwich, extricated himself from the telly, and finished his chores, Harry was back in the kitchen, building another sandwich. He spread jam on the bread, enough of it to nearly soak through, then peanut butter, then a very little of Dudley’s precious marshmallow fluff -- just enough to be unnoticeable. He added the final slice of bread and, overwhelmed with luxury, stretched his arms out wide and spun around in glee. It wasn’t until he stopped his spin and came to a dizzy stop against the counter that a frisson of nervousness went through him, and something in his body went taut. He looked to his right almost fearfully, and saw the jam jar.

Floating in midair.

Harry stopped dead and closed his eyes. He opened them again. Still there, still floating. He’d brushed against something while spinning, he could easily have knocked the jar off the counter. It looked as if he had - and yet. Harry thanked some deity for not letting it smash and ruin Aunt Petunia’s floor. He stared at the jar again, and, possessed by an odd impulse, pointed his arm at it. His hand was trembling, and it may have been imagination, but -- was the jar trembling in sync? He tightened his muscles, and, slowly, raised his arm.

And the jar floated upwards.

Harry exhaled very, very slowly. Logic and rationality were falling apart around him, but he couldn’t think about that. He raised his arm more, genuinely shaking now, and the jam jar copied his movements, floating ever so slowly, up, up, and over, and gently coming to a stop on the counter, just as it had been a minute or an hour ago.

Harry leaned against the counter, sandwich and glee forgotten. This -- this _thing_ , this thing that had happened - “freaky stuff,” Uncle Vernon seemed to say in his mind - was the same kind of _thing_ that had happened in the library. Harry was rather certain he couldn’t speak for his mind whirling in fear and terror and a bit of excitement, but one forgotten corner of his soul seemed to whisper in his ear -- “Magic.”

\------------------------------------

Click. Aunt Petunia shut his cupboard door behind him, and Harry listened in the dark, periodically brushing his hair off, as the sprays of cement dust from the ceiling melded with Dudley’s heavy thumps up the stairs. Aunt Petunia’s soft footsteps went into the parlor, Uncle Vernon’s house-shaking bangs preceding her, and in a few moments Harry heard the news channel blare to life. If all went well, even if what he was doing made any noise, neither Petunia nor Vernon would notice.

Harry took a deep breath, and held his hand out in front of him. He couldn’t even make out its outline without the cupboard’s derelict bulb, but tonight he didn’t want it. He squinted at his fingers and unconsciously held his breath, hoping -- willing -- for them to -- yes, there it was -- just a little more -- and a bit more -- and it was quite good now -- then his palm flared with a burst of white light and Harry, temporarily blinded, fell backwards. Blinking the afterimages out of his eyes, he let out his breath. It had worked much better than when he tried it last night, though as his still-watering eyes could testify, he still needed to work on controlling his -- 

Well, what was it exactly? The logical part of Harry’s brain refused to believe it was magic. But Harry was in the end a nine-year-old experiencing something he’d never known before, and the adventuring side of him firmly quashed the logical side, appealing it with a promise to be logical later, after Harry experimented more.

He gritted his teeth and willed his fingers into light once more, shakily, as if they were a guttering candle. Nothing. Perhaps words would help. “Light up?” he wondered tentatively. Nothing happened. “Light.” Nothing. The image of the candle stuck in his mind’s eye, and he watched as the “candle” flared into life, wavered back and forth, and slowly strengthened. “Li-” and his hand began to glow. “Light!” he thought desperately, his mental candle sparking wildly, and his hand flared sharply in response.

He tried imagining the candle once again, slowly holding a match to it in his mind, the wick glowing and then igniting. The flame grew, and his hand glowed brighter. Once he had a steady glow, he breathed out in relief -- not even realizing he’d been holding his breath -- and the candle in his mind, buffeted by wind, abruptly went out, as did his hand. Uncontrollably, he grinned.

Struck by an idea, he made a pushing motion at an old toy car of Dudley’s. “Move!” It twitched, but stayed static. He imagined Dudley in front of the TV, watching sports cars sprint in Formula One Racing. The cars would rev, sparks flaring from the tires, and screech into motion -- and the car in front of him slid half an inch or so across the carpet.

How was this possible? No, it wasn’t time to think yet, this was exciting. Harry raised his hand again, imagining the racecars, and unbidden his mind flicked to the time Dudley had put his foot through the telly in anger. He had heard an almighty crash, a roar of Dudley-brand rage, and a shatter, and -- the car in front of him shuddered and cracked slightly. Whoops. He forced his mind to concentrate, to push out interfering thoughts, and tried once again. And again, and again. He wouldn’t sleep tonight, but that was all right. He was willing to spend as long as it took.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might've noticed, there is no set schedule to this story, as my coauthor had an unexpected issue and isn't able to help me write for the foreseeable future (though I keep bugging her in hopes that will change.) Therefore when I get stuck, I get stuck, and without someone to prod me or fill in what I can't think of it goes quite a bit slower. Apologies for that.
> 
> Also, the lengths of the chapters may vary; this went longer than I expected, and the previous went shorter. Once the story is finished I may rearrange if necessary, though the content will stay constant.

Harry lounged backwards on the now slightly-too-small bed, watching as a sock wiggled and flitted its way upwards, hanging in the air next to the lightbulb of his cupboard. He smiled -- it had been a long time since his power had amazed him, but it never failed to amuse him -- and twitched the sock back and forth, hands clasped behind his head in a parody of Dudley’s “Look, Piers, no hands!” bicycle riding. Before he’d crashed and nearly fallen off the bridge, of course. That memory widened Harry’s half-smile, and he levitated the second sock out from its corner. Then he sneezed violently and both socks flew up and landed smartly on his face.

 _Thump._ Dudley, even fatter a year and a half later, abused the poor staircase once again by tromping downstairs, and Harry recalled himself and set to, amid the creaks and groans above him, pulling on a shirt and straightening the blankets on his cot. Then he slid out the door, ducking his head at the lintel, and jogged into the kitchen. 

Half an hour later, breakfast was ready, just as Dudley finished watching his first telly program of the day. Uncle Vernon followed him into the kitchen, looking blearily red-faced -- Harry recalled last night’s business meeting in the parlor being late and scotch-fueled -- and Aunt Petunia came in last, nervously adjusting her curlers as usual. Having set the table and served the food, Harry rapidly buttered two slices of bread for himself and, blocking the Dursleys’ view with his turned back, reached towards the leftover bacon sizzling in the skillet. And then, with that same half-smile, he levitated them up very gently and onto his plate with a greasy smack. His own daily reminder not to let the Dursleys scare him, because he could do things they’d never dreamed of.

And all right, maybe it did take a little effort to change the color of his hair or his skin, and it might’ve taken a sweaty, nervous thirty minutes to revert himself from looking like a floppy-haired-version of his classmate Praneet Sharma, but changing himself was near impossible and only happened on accident. The things that came easier -- the fun ones -- were the things like picking something up without touching it, or making something glow if it was dark, or changing the colors on inanimate objects -- Dudley had been confused for a week when Harry had switched the colors of his maths and history books -- or, just once, making water squirt from the tips of his fingers when a piece of bread, neglected in the toaster, had accidentally caught on fire. He planned to work on that one later, and the thought of that made him smile internally. They were small things, yes, but they made him, in an indefinable way, different from the Dursleys, who could hurt with no more than their words and their fists - but that thought was an unnerving one, and Harry pushed it away, wrapped bacon in toast, swiped the grease off his plate with the bread, and stuffed it into his mouth. 

He rose, tuning out another one of Vernon’s lectures, and took his plates to the sink, running water over them and idly twisting a lock of his hair - grown to his shoulders by now, Vernon having finally given up yelling about haircuts - around a finger until Aunt Petunia, finished eating, beckoned for Harry to take her plates. Then he scrubbed, the rhythm of the task not ceasing even when Aunt Petunia edged her horsey face in front of him, failing to look intimidating in hair curlers and a bathrobe that seemed to have sheep printed on it.

“Boy,” she hissed, “when you’re done with the dishes -- and don’t _splash_ anywhere -- fetch the mail, it’s late as usual, get Dudders some more bacon, take care of his plates, and get out into the garden. You’re not to go scurrying off to the library” - she scowled - “for today’s weeding day. Understood, boy?”

Harry nodded as she walked away, her head tilting crazily with the weight of too many curlers. He considered making a horrible face at Dudley, who, characteristically, noticed nothing while food remained in front of him, but decided not to tempt fate and instead plunked the clean plates into their cabinets, and trotted into the front hallway just as the mail slot opened and envelopes fell with soft thuds onto the rug. 

He flipped through the stack -- junk, junk, something from Grunnings, Petunia’s monthly garden magazine, Dudley’s car magazine, more junk -- and an envelope just barely caught his eye. It was addressed “Mr. H. Potter” in a strange, crooked green typeface that looked almost like handwriting. Harry stared at it. His first inclination was that it must be junk mail -- random things sent to him after he’d put down his name and address for a competition at school -- but there was a strange feeling lingering the back of his mind that urged him not to bin the letter, at least not immediately. So he slid the letter underneath the door of his cupboard as he walked by to hand the rest of the stack to Petunia. Junk mail or not, he would at least have extra paper to practice turning different colors.

Aunt Petunia took the stack of mail in turn, setting it on the side board, then jumped violently with Vernon’s bellow of “DUST!”

Harry stared. “Dust, sir?” Clearly Uncle Vernon hadn’t fully recovered from last night.

“Yes, boy, you know you were supposed to dust the parlor last night! Why is my cigar box dusty?”

Harry opened his mouth once more, considering a snarky remark, but then changed his mind abruptly as Aunt Petunia thrust a duster in front of his nose with one hand and propelled him towards the parlor with the other, shaking her head in exasperation -- whether at Harry or Vernon, he couldn’t tell.

Dusting was quick, and barring when Harry “accidentally” tickled Vernon’s dozing face with the duster, provoking ominous grumbles, largely uneventful. Harry replaced the duster when he was done and went to change into his “gardening clothes” -- really just hand-me-downs from Dudley that were even larger than normal.

He opened the door to his cupboard and nearly slipped on the envelope he’d forgotten was there. He picked it up, yanking on the cord to turn the light on, and sat down on his cot to slit it open.

In the next minute, Harry forgot all about gardening, as he read:

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: ALBUS PERCIVAL WULFRIC BRIAN DUMBLEDORE  
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall,  
Deputy Headmistress_

Questions exploded in Harry’s mind, blinking into existence every moment until he hardly knew what to think.

“Supreme Mugwump?” he said at last. “Isn’t....isn’t that some sort of American political party?”

The next moment he realized that it was a rather stupid question to ask, considering the rest of the letter. Order of Merlin? Hogwarts School? _Witchcraft and wizardry?_ Why did the school have warts, and was it a pig? Were witchcraft and wizardry different things, or just two different names for boys’ and girls’ studies? Were they real?

With an effort, Harry dragged himself back to rationality. It had to be some sort of -- some sort of prank letter. One of the neighbor boys, perhaps Piers, or Jamie, except considering Jamie’s score on the last spelling test, Harry doubted he could spell “witchcraft.”

That nagging feeling in the back of his mind was there again, and this time Harry paused. Something was urging him, quite unnervingly, to pay attention to this letter. Harry flipped the envelope over, and for the first time noticed where it was addressed to - _The Cupboard Under the Stairs._ His cupboard. If this was a prank letter, he didn’t know where they could’ve gotten that from, because Harry wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone he slept in a cupboard.

So Harry resolved to, for the moment, undertake a small thought experiment. He assumed that this was true -- and as soon as that feeling was firmly fixed in his mind, he felt that same nagging voice in his brain click into place, almost with satisfaction. He continued, talking softly aloud to himself. 

“Witchcraft and wizardry. That could be -- what I do, with the levitating and the changing color. And if I can do these things, there ought to be others in the world who can. Clearly the Dursleys can’t, but these people -- “ his finger stabbed downwards to _ALBUS PERCIVAL WULFRIC BRIAN DUMBLEDORE_ \-- “perhaps _they_ can.” 

And though he knew that hadn’t made much sense aloud, that feeling in his head pushed him to understand it. And suddenly he had a plan.

Just as suddenly, Aunt Petunia rapped on the door, screeching “Are you changed yet, boy?” and Harry finished yanking the overlarge shirt over his head and slipped out of the cupboard, fetching a pair of gloves from the shed without a word and walking back to the garden. Weeding was dull work, especially in this heat, but it would give him time to think.

\----------------------------

He’d have to ask them to send someone, to send some proof in some way. Nobody in their right mind -- though he wasn’t quite sure he was himself in his right mind -- would believe magic without some concrete proof of its existence. And if by some curious chance they replied to his letter, he wouldn’t mind some useful test of magic. Perhaps by turning Dudley into a toad. Yes, that would do quite well. And it would be quite instructive. Fitting for a school.

Having penned his reply, he stretched for a moment and walked out of the library. It was almost time for dinner, and he sped up his pace. His hair was still a little wet from his shower after gardening, but it was rapidly drying in the stifling heat. He wiped a sheen of sweat off his forehead, and in doing so inadvertently blocked his view of old Mrs. Figg until he’d practically run over her, the contents of his backpack - which he’d forgotten to zip again - spilling all over the road in the process. He snatched a couple of papers that were being blown away while Mrs. Figg offered to put the rest back into his pack, and he would’ve still made it home on time if Mrs. Figg hadn’t paused. 

“Harry, dear, what’s this?”

He squinted at the sheet in her hand, and winced. 

“Uh, it’s... it’s a prank letter I got. I wanted to...” 

He trailed off, wincing at his own nervousness -- he was practically stammering like a child -- but Mrs. Figg didn’t seem to notice. She had an odd look on her face, but it cleared in the next moment. 

“Harry, dear, as a matter of fact, I’m heading to the post office right now, would you like me to post this for you? It’ll be no trouble.. 

It struck Harry that Mrs. Figg had never mentioned sending post before -- in fact she often lamented how no one wrote her letters -- but a quick glance at his watch dispelled any thoughts of how today had been a string of odd coincidences. He agreed quickly, thankful for the trip saved him, and then sprinted the half-block remaining to the Dursleys.

\------------------------------------

“Well, boy, have you packed all our things? My suits -- they had better not be wrinkled -- ties, Mackintosh, your Aunt’s dresses starched - “

Uncle Vernon, in a frenzy before their annual vacation to Majorca, was harassing Harry more than usual while Aunt Petunia rushed about the house, her curlers falling into her eyes and muttering under her breath.

“Yes, everything’s there... sir.”

“Don’t be insolent with me, boy. Get along to Mrs. Figg’s and don’t try any stuff. I don’t dare keep you in the house alone for a week.”

Harry nodded respectfully, keeping a straight face as Aunt Petunia, blinded by a curler, bounced off a toy-laden Dudley, and he ducked out the front door with his knapsack firmly on both shoulders.

“And don’t cause any trouble, or she won’t take you the next time, and Lord knows what we’ll do then,” Aunt Petunia chimed in from behind.

Mr. Wibbles met Harry halfway down the sidewalk, seeming to beckon imperiously despite the large pink bow on his head, and twitched his tail, and Harry, now smirking openly, followed him into the house. Mrs. Figg stuck her head out of the kitchen. 

“HARRY!” Mrs. Figg was getting a bit deaf in her old age, and seemed to think everyone else was too. “A LETTER CAME BACK FOR YOU, DEAR! IT’S ON THE END TABLE.”

He hadn’t really expected a reply -- to be honest, why would he have? -- , but now that it was here he felt a little shiver of excitement. The reply was in the same odd green ink as the first envelope had been, and was addressed to “Arabella Figg, 7 Privet Drive, Conveyer of Information to Harry Potter.” 

He opened it up, feeling a curious lack of surprise. It certainly didn’t _feel_ magical, just like an ordinary letter. Harry opened it up and squinted at the scrawl.

He skimmed quickly past the references to Mr. Wibbles, Oscar, and Lucy and her kittens -- this Headmaster, whoever he was, certainly seemed to be friendly with Mrs. Figg -- and came to the offhand postscript at the end. _Minerva would be happy to Floo in tomorrow at four to have tea with you and Mr. Potter._

Harry felt an odd, nervous frisson of excitement. He reminded himself that he was almost eleven years old, and tried to calm himself, but he couldn’t. He reminded himself that magic couldn’t be real. He reminded himself that if he didn’t eat faster, Mr. Wibbles would steal his bacon. And yet he couldn’t stop himself from quivering almost giddily, because something in him said that in one day -- he checked his watch -- forty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds, his life would change forever.

\------------------------------

The next day was gloomy, with threats of rain, but Harry still felt as if a balloon were inflated inside him. He attempted to keep himself stoic, but even Mrs. Figg looked at him curiously when he expressed far too much excitement at Mr. Wibbles’ new bow. The morning seemed alternately to fly and drag by.

At four o’clock, Mr. Wibbles meandered back into the house, looking hungrily at the flowers on the side table. Harry sipped his tea, and he had hardly noticed Mr. Wibbles’ companion, an oddly stiff-looking cat, before it disappeared.

One part of Harry’s mind wondered whether the tea had been drugged. The other was too busy gaping. 

A tall, stately woman had materialized where the cat had been. 

“Hello,” she said, as if this were entirely normal.

Harry continued to gape until Mrs. Figg, coming out of the kitchen, stuffed a bun in his mouth and offered one to the woman.

“Mr. Potter? Did you hear me?”

“Uh.”

The woman, looking even more severe than the tabby, sighed, and muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “just like his father,” began again.

“Mr. Potter, you are a wizard. You can do magic, as I’m sure you know by now. You are to attend Hogwarts, as all young wizards and witches do, for magical training.” 

As an aside, she added, “I’m surprised your guardians did not inform you of it, but in any case it does not matter. Students attend Hogwarts for seven years....”

Harry’s face was blank with astonishment. McGonagall, as she’d introduced herself, seemed to take that for nonchalance, and kept going.

“....we will need to take you to Diagon Alley before the term begins, to get your supplies. You will be escorted by me, of course, or another teacher if I am unavailable. When would be a good day for that, Mr. Potter? Boy, are you listening?”

Harry finally managed to force coherent words out of his mouth. “The Dursleys return in four days, ma’am --”

“Ah. Good, they are your guardians, as I recall. You will not be averse to my informing them of our excursion this Friday, then? It was nice to see you once again, Mr. Potter, I will meet you then. Good day, Arabella, and do take care of Mr. Wibbles. He’s getting a bit too old to chase after rats as he does.”

Harry stood there as if he had been pinned to the floor, entirely speechless, not to mention terrified. The lingering sweet-and-sour tastes on his tongue from the bun he still held swirled into something that tasted suspiciously of excitement.

\------------------------------

One week later, despite all that had changed on that simple afternoon, Harry woke up to the familiar screech he had come to loathe and sighed. He was beginning to think it had all been a dream. He opened the door to his cupboard quietly to avoid waking Dudley, whose awakening before breakfast was ready could cause a maelstrom in the house, and set about his morning chores. Eggs boiling, French toast cooking, cinnamon treats in the oven -- check, check, check. Harry trudged outside to take out the garbage, not watching where he was going, and nearly tripped over a cat.

Harry squinted at it as it yowled, and suddenly realized it looked very familiar. Professor McGonagall had returned, then. The happy bubble inside him half inflated, and abruptly popped as he heard Petunia screech “The eggs are burning!” 

Harry groaned. Really, now? Really, universe? Who had time for this? Not Harry, and certainly not now.

“Professor,” he said. “I’ve got to get breakfast ready now, you know. Er, could you wait a... couple hours?”

Harry didn’t miss the narrowing of the cat’s eyes nor the twitch of her tail which promised someone a most unpleasant death. Probably Harry. He made sure to drop a few bits of leftover cold fish out for her, hoping that would appease her.

\---------

After breakfast, Harry was about to slip back into his cupboard when the doorbell rang. Hoping against hope it was not who he knew it was, he jumped up before the Dursleys could tell him to and opened the door. Naturally, human McGonagall strode past him into the entryway. She asked him where the Dursleys were. He winced, and asked her if it was really necessary to involve his relatives in the matter. She gave him an odd look. 

“Yes, Potter, we’re in a hurry, so do hurry along and fetch them!” she said. She called after him “And change out of those rags!”

He went to the back room, and said “Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, there’s someone here from school to see you.” He made sure to avoid mentioning what school, and hurried to his cupboard, just seeing Aunt Petunia hurrying out, running her hands over her aproned front, and stopping dead in the entryway at the sight of the cloak-wearing, distinctly magical McGonagall. Harry wasn’t sure who he was more afraid of -- probably Aunt Petunia, since he had to live with her, but it was a close call.

“Are you... one of _them_?” she screeched, and Harry hurriedly shut his door.

He silently thanked the gods that he had such few possessions and gathered his things into his knapsack, slipping downstairs when the echoes had ceased. Uncle Vernon, he was unsurprised to see, was an unhealthy shade of purple, and was moving his fat lips rapidly to no avail. Well, there was that proof of magic he was looking for. Forcibly suspending disbelief - it had to be magic, if it prevented Senior Director Vernon J. Dursley from speaking his mind - he stepped outside and paused.

“Professor, er, are we going in the car, or....?” Harry asked.

“No, Mr. Potter. Hold my arm.” She twisted suddenly, not giving him time to ask why, and Harry’s feet were wrenched over his head and back again, wherein he found himself in front of a dingy old pub curiously labeled The Leaky Cauldron. Or perhaps not curiously, as he supposed cauldrons, even leaky ones, must figure prominently in whatever wizard-land was called.

“It’s called Britain, Mr. Potter, for heaven’s sakes!” Had he said that aloud? Oh. If this woman was going to be his professor, he’d better keep better control of his - 

“Yes, Mr. Potter, I am. I teach Transfiguration. Any other questions?”

Damn. He was beginning to think she could read his mind. Or maybe he was just losing it.

Before he blurted out anything else, Harry trotted quickly after McGonagall into the pub. It was fairly deserted, as pubs go - though it seemed to be much larger than it had looked, it was barely half full - and at first quiet, but as McGonagall beckoned him after her, the proprietor caught his eye and immediately dropped the glass in his hand.

“Harry Potter, as I live and breathe…”

Harry was not quite sure how to respond, but he wasn’t given time, as the proprietor hurried from behind the bar to shake his hand. A moment later he was replaced by a wizened old woman, a shabbily dressed man, and a trembling wizard McGonagall introduced as Professor Quirrell, Hogwarts’ Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor, research specialty in South-Saharan vampires. He pondered how African vampires coped with the sun as Quirrell stuttered an introduction, and ducking some overly enthusiastic patrons wanting to shake his hand, he sighed with relief as McGonagall beckoned him out out the back. 

\----------------------------------

“This is Diagon Alley, Mr. Potter. Though considering that you didn’t listen to a word Professor Quirrell said, I doubt you’ll remember the name.”

Harry snorted - that would be valid if he could understand what Quirrell said - and stepped through the archway, carefully taking note of the pattern of wand-taps McGonagall had used to open it with. He opened his mouth to ask whether the wand was required to open it, and then stopped, because even in his books he’d never seen something like this.

“The men are wearing dresses,” said his internal Uncle Vernon. “Pansies, the lot of them, must be.” But these men in dresses were wizards, apparently, experiencing this surreal world that vibrated with magic and not even blinking. And besides, from a different angle, the dresses swept out in quite a masculine way. 

The women were also wearing dresses, but that was normal. The abnormal parts were the fun parts. Like the owls swooping from side to side, the handfuls of gooey, glittery things a woman was sorting through at “the Apothecary,” which Harry knew was an old word for “pharmacy,” and yet these didn’t look like any medicines he’d ever - was that a goblin?

Harry barely kept his composure as emotions and information flashed through his mind all in a whirl -- he didn’t even know what to ask. He tried, but ended up sounding like Quirrell, and stopped, flushing, as McGonagall gave him a beady-eyed stare.

“Alright, Potter,” Professor McGonagall cut into his inner monologue. “I must return to Hogwarts soon, so we need to get on with the shopping. Get out your list - it should have come with your letter. It’s Gringotts for your money first, and then Madam Malkin’s for your robes.”

She walked him up to a rather grand marble building, labeled Gringotts Wizarding Bank. It made sense that wizards also had banks, he supposed. It did not, however, make sense that the bank tellers were goblins. But he was getting used to nothing making sense here. 

A realization hit him suddenly, popping an unpleasant hole in his ponderings. The Dursleys surely wouldn’t have paid for his schooling, so where would he get the money to buy his things? Worriedly, he expressed this concern aloud, but Professor McGonagall only laughed. 

“The Potters, not have any money? Here, follow me.” 

She extracted a pair of small golden keys from a pocket that hadn’t existed a moment ago and handed them to the first goblin, who examined the keys so closely his nose touched them. Perhaps he was sniffing them to tell if they were genuine. Did keys have a smell? 

He had no time to wonder further, because the goblin grunted “Looks like things are in order. Griphook!” Another goblin, seemingly identical to the first, strutted up and beckoned. McGonagall and Harry followed him into a cart, and Harry only had time to wonder at the lack of a steering wheel when it jerked and then shot forward, Harry colliding with the goblin’s ridged back from time to time. The cart careened from side to side, following a needlessly curvy track over what seemed to be a cavern. Harry began to wonder how the track stayed up, and then reminded himself - “Oh, right. Magic.” He wondered where the goblin’s wand was -- McGonagall seemed to like keeping hers close.

The cart shuddered to a stop, and Harry gingerly stepped out. He was about to lean against the wall when the goblin yanked him away, explaining, 

“Top secret vault. Gringotts goblins only.” 

Harry noted the information - where else did goblins live? - and simultaneously gaped as Griphook splayed a hand over the door and it faded away. The goblin beckoned McGonagall inside, using one arm to keep Harry away. He watched as McGonagall scooped a small package into her coat, then was unceremoniously herded back into the cart for “Potter vault, next stop!”

Harry gaped. There was quite a lot of money inside this new vault - was it really his? his parents’? - stacks of gold pieces, many more silver ones, and about ten stacks of tiny bronze pieces, and McGonagall swept some into a bag and handed it to Harry. 

“Gold are Galleons, silver are Sickles, bronze are Knuts. It’s seven Sickles to a Galleon, thirteen Knuts to a Sickle.”

Harry attempted to determine the conversion rate to pounds and wondered if there was a wizard->normal-human stock exchange as he followed McGonagall out of Gringotts, squinting at the sun, and across the street to what seemed to be “Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions.”

Harry noticed, quite detachedly, that similar to the pub, the inside of the shop seemed to be larger than the outside, but had no time to think about this because his attention was immediately caught by an otherwise ordinary tape measure that seemed to be moving of its own volition, measuring the arms and legs and head and even ominously winding around the neck of a dark-skinned boy. He looked boredly around as a woman who had to be his mother examined witches’ robes on the other side.

A plump woman wearing robes emblazoned with “Madam Malkin” bustled in. 

“Oh, hello Minerva, another Muggle-born? I suppose I can fit them in, come, step up - Merlin, Harry Potter?” 

Harry pulled his eyes away from the floating tape measure and nodded warily, hoping he wasn’t agreeing to being Merlin. 

“Oh, well - my goodness, Harry Potter in my own shop - well, dear, just step up here and we’ll get your measure.” 

And with a snap of fingers another tape measure was flitting around Harry as he twisted his neck around, trying to keep it in his sight.

Madam Malkin hurried into the back as a frumpy assistant came out with robes, pulled them over his neighbor’s head, and started pinning and tucking while studiously ignoring the indignant yelps of pain when a pin caught in the wrong place. Harry couldn’t help staring at the other boy, with hair long enough to be a girl’s and large dark eyes that didn’t help that impression with their long lashes. Harry jumped when he spoke, deadpan. 

*“What are you staring for? You’re Harry Potter; I’d think I should be the one staring at you.. I’m Blaise Zabini, if you want to have a proper conversation.” 

Harry searched for words, and came up with “Harry Potter, but I suppose you know that.” 

He winced at the way it came out and hurried on, “Er - are you going to Hogwarts too?”

“Yes, Potter, what else d’you think I’d be doing in a robe shop at the end of July?”

“I, er, alright,” Harry flushed. “I guess there isn’t much else -- but, you know, some kids are home-schooled..., and, anyway, you know what happens when you assume. Um.”

Blaise gave a half-smirk. “I’ll pretend I understood that, for the sake of the conversation. What House do you think you’ll be in? _I’ll_ be in Slytherin, of course, though Father was in Ravenclaw.”

Harry had no idea what either of those was. “Uh, not sure...”

“You’re not very eloquent; you might be a Hufflepuff,” Blaise smirked, and Harry had the vague impression he’d just been insulted.

He defaulted to another intelligent-sounding “Er, I suppose...” but thankfully was saved by Madam Malkin going “That’s you done, dear,” and Blaise jogged out of the shop after his mother without a backwards look.

Harry’s robes were done in another few minutes, and he stepped out, clutching the package, as McGonagall came down the way and briskly informed him that the next stop would be Flourish and Blotts. Judging from the terrible pun, Harry guessed it was probably a stationery store.

Harry looked around as they trooped towards the store, and tried to take in the situation around him. People appearing out of nowhere, a lone toad staring at him as if it could understand his thoughts, a man gleefully changing colors a couple shops down the road. It made no sense at all, but Harry found he rather liked this insanity. Aunt Petunia would have kittens if she saw it, after all, and that couldn’t be bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading; please comment with reactions, criticism or suggestions.
> 
> Additionally, if anyone is willing to beta-read, edit, or help me brainstorm, that would be most helpful - please let me know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shopping is always fun. And everything's more fun with magic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's winter break, so I figured I'd put some time into this. Also, my coauthor's back. Thanks, merpl.

When they entered at the door labeled “Flourish and Blotts Booksellers,” Professor McGonagall glanced at Harry’s list and noted the books they had to buy. Harry heard none of that as he was in the shop already, gazing about rapturously. Books! Books on the walls, a few on the ceiling, heaven knows how they got there, books everywhere - Harry tripped. Over a book. Or, more accurately, a pile of books, connected to dainty black shoes. Which connected to a girl. 

“Oh,” Harry said. “Sorry.”

He flushed, and as an afterthought picked up the books and handed them to her.

“Thanks,” the girl said. She shifted a couple of books in her arms, stacking them until they completely eclipsed her face and all Harry could see of her was the edges of her rather bushy hair. She stuck her head around the books and grinned at him. 

“Brilliant shop, isn’t this? I’ve never seen one quite like it before.”

“Me either,” said Harry. His mouth threatened traitorously to smile back. “Where I’m from, the shelves usually stay put…” 

And indeed, nearby, the shelf labeled “Medical Potions” was shifting creakily to make room for “Muggle Animals, K-R.”

When he turned back, the girl said “Oh, are you a Muggle-born? I am too! I haven’t been here very long, but I think the Wizarding world is fantastic so far - ”

“A what?” interrupted Harry.

“Oh, Muggles are what they call non-magic folk, you know. My parents are Muggles. They’re dentists. But sometimes the magic skips a generation or two and you get people like us: wizards from Muggle parents.” 

She was grinning as she rattled this off, and added “I wonder if there’s anything on the genetics of magic here? It’d be fascinating to learn more…” and scanned the shelves nearby.

“Well, I’m not exactly Muggle, then,” said Harry. “My parents were wizards, both, but my aunt and uncle raised me, and _they_ weren’t magic at all.”

“Oh,” said the girl, and seemed about to say more, but - 

“Potter! Harry! Harry?” McGonagall called from somewhere behind.

“Here,” Harry responded. He turned to go, but paused at the sight of the girl’s astonished face.

“What?”

“She didn’t say… Harry Potter? Are you?”

“Oh, not again,” Harry muttered, and forwent further conversation by following the sound of Professor McGonagall’s voice to the register.

\----------------------------------

“You forgot your book list,” McGonagall told him when he found her. 

She handed him the sheet, as well as another piece of parchment that seemed to be a map of the bookstore. Upon closer inspection, though, Harry found that the rectangles on the map that denoted shelves shifted around as well, leaving faint smudges of ink that faded in the next second, and his own position was marked by a pair of footprints labeled “You are here.”

Harry sighed inwardly. It seemed he wasn’t going to get any further explanation of what was going on. At least he had the rather intriguing map, and the book list, though. It could be worse. Aunt Petunia’d had him memorize plenty of shopping lists without a map, and then of course proceeded to chew him out about how long the groceries took. Harry wasn’t certain, but he didn’t think that would happen here.

Harry shook his head clean of these thoughts. He needed to find the books, in any case. Squinting at the book list, Harry noted the first three books that he needed and headed over to a shelf conveniently marked “Spellwork for Beginners.” He scanned the shelf, pulling the first of the books, _The Standard Book of Spells, Year One,_ off. The book was heavy, but Harry adjusted his grip accordingly, and collected Bathilda Bagshot’s _A History of Magic_ and Adalbert Waffling’s _Magical Theory_ as well. He collected all of his books, up to Quentin Tremble’s _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection_. It was convenient, of course, that nearly all of the books were next to one another in order on the shelf.

Eventually he had collected all but one of the books on his list, holding them in an increasingly precarious pile before his face, when he noticed the girl from before leaning against a shelf reading a colorful tome. Unable to resist, Harry turned his head sideways and had just managed to make out “ _Arithmancy in the Real World_ ” when he realized two things: one, that he wasn’t being very subtle, and two, that the girl was staring at him, suppressing a smile.

“Want to see?” she said, now giggling in earnest.

Harry flushed, but figured the damage was done. 

“Sure,” he said, accepting the book from her hands. First Harry flipped the book over to look for a summary on the back, but, finding none there, nor in the front flap, Harry flipped open to a random page, and read:

_“The usage of eigenvectors in higher arithmancy requires a firm grasp on the basics of matrix manipulation and wand-matrix association. The Gram-Schmidt-Meyerton process marries typical orthonormalization with basic charmwork to streamline…”_

Harry could tell that she was watching him. He suspected, though, that she did not understand the writing quite as much as she was pretending to, but he hadn’t understood much either. From what he could glean, though, it seemed intriguing.

Harry swallowed his pride. 

“Matrices?” he said. “Like… regular matrices? Normal ones… bloody hell.”

She laughed. “As far as I can tell, the basic rules are the same. The weird part is where the wandwork comes in - I understand basic mobility spells, but the way they’re applied on page 87 -”

She took the book from him and paged rapidly through it, pointing to a paragraph and a set of diagrams, and Harry bent his head to see.

\----------------------------------

Forty-five minutes later, McGonagall sharply cleared her throat behind where the pair were sitting, cross-legged inside a circle of Hogwarts books, and bent over the Arithmancy textbook. Harry wasn’t sure, embarrassed as he was for wasting time, but he thought she was hiding a smile.

As they left the shop, Harry waved. He didn’t want to call out a loud farewell in a bookshop, but he did try to grin at her as he left with Professor McGonagall to do the rest of his school shopping. It was only then that he realized he still hadn’t asked the girl’s name. 

He shook his head sheepishly, and Professor McGonagall startled him by asking what was wrong.

“Errr, nothing,” Harry muttered. But then he added “I forgot to introduce myself. And get her name.”

McGonagall chuckled. “Trust me, Potter, she knows who you are. And if she’s a first year, you’ll meet her properly soon enough at the Sorting Ceremony, so don’t fret too much.”

Harry couldn’t help but be slightly relieved - and also slightly excited to continue the Arithmancy discussion. What _was_ charm-driven linearization, anyway?

\----------------------------------

McGonagall consulted Harry’s letter.

“It looks like we’ve got almost everything here, Potter. Only the wand left, and then I’ll drop you back off home.”

“Sounds good,” Harry replied aloud, although he would have preferred not going home. Was that not a part of the Hogwarts’ Package Deal? He did know that term didn’t start for two weeks yet, though, so he sighed to himself.

They walked down Diagon Alley, and turned slightly to the right and came upon a small, ancient building labeled “ _Ollivander’s_ ,” and below, in smaller print, “ _Masters of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._ ” Harry walked in, and immediately his skin tingled. He looked around somewhat nervously, and walked ahead to the counter. It was empty, but there was a small silver bell on it. Hoping it worked like Muggle counter bells, Harry tapped it, and immediately jumped back when in addition to a sharp ‘ding,’ it also sprayed colorful sparks.

An slight, wrinkled wizard with silvery hair poked his head out from the back of the shop. “Ah, yes, Harry Potter, young Harry Potter. Here for a wand, I suppose?”

Not waiting for an answer to his question, the man continued, his eyes narrowing. “I remember your father coming in for his very own wand, wasn’t much higher than you stand at the time. Here, try this one, mahogany and unicorn hair, twelve and a half inches - “ and the old man suddenly uncovered a box and thrust a wand into Harry’s hand.

Harry looked at it quizzically. It was smooth and rounded, but felt like nothing special.

“Well,” the man looked at him impatiently, “go on, give it a wave.”

Harry did so. As he expected, nothing happened.

“Not so like your father as you look, then. Favored a mahogany wand, that one did, but this one hasn’t taken to you... give this one a try, no? Cedar and dragon hearstring, thirteen inches...” 

He handed Harry a dusty box, which Harry opened to find another wand, this one longer by a few centimetres and slightly thinner. His hand slid neatly into grooves near the base. He waved that one as well, and a few blue sparks flew into the air, startling him. But it didn’t seem to be what Ollivander was looking for, as that wand was quickly substituted for another (“birch and unicorn hair, ten and a half inches,”) which got even less results.

On Harry’s sixth wand, he began to suspect that he might be here for a while, but counted the number of wands he tried out of curiosity, or perhaps sheer boredom. Nearly, three quarters of an hour later, Harry had already shattered the glass in the shop window (which was luckily immediately fixed by a wave of Ollivander’s own wand,) singed a couple shelves and a vase of peonies, and somehow conjured a violent turtle (immediately vanished by another wave of Ollivander’s wand.) McGonagall was unashamedly reading a rather thick textbook and not paying attention to any of it.

Ollivander smiled mysteriously, oddly silver eyes glinting. Harry might have felt more nervous, but Ollivander was too old to hurt him, really, and McGonagall was in the room. Besides, Harry was beginning to think that keeping students in his shop for extended periods of time was one of the wizard’s hobbies.

Ollivander pulled out another box, not seeming to tire in the least and adding a little flourish at the end. “Perhaps,” he began in a tone that implied no uncertainty, “perhaps you might try this one, Potter.”

Sure enough, the moment the wand was in Harry’s hand, it sparked, but not painfully. He waved it gingerly, but a fountain of silver lights poured out of the end, covering Harry’s front and Ollivander’s hand but melting away in the next moment. Ollivander clapped his gnarled hands, looking as though he was about to bounce up and down.

“Curious, very curious,” he began in a more restrained manner.

Ollivander looked as though he intended to continue, so Harry didn’t interrupt.

“I remember every single wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Eleven inches, holly, phoenix feather. But it so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar. I remember the day as it happened, of course, who doesn’t? Dark, dark days, those were. The day the Dark Lord waved that wand and slew your parents. You stopped him, that day. It’s not unusual that you and You-Know-Who should be destined for brother wands."

Harry blinked at him. He opened his mouth a few times, not saying anything, as he attempted to compose himself. “Of course, sir. Thanks.” Harry forcibly restrained himself from adding I guess at the end. “How much do I owe you for the wand?”

“Seven sickles, young Potter, make it twelve for a holster as well.”

Harry thought a holster sounded like a good idea, but McGonagall only counted out seven silver coins and Harry received the wand, laid in a long slim box. Harry hoped he wouldn’t regret McGonagall’s choice, but didn’t want to say anything. He had mixed feelings about this wand as is.

\----------------------------------

Harry wasn’t looking forward to returning to the Dursleys. He knew it showed on his face, but he hoped McGonagall would interpret that as discomfort with the previous conversational topic. In what Harry suspected was a rare show of generosity, McGonagall turned to Harry. 

“Now, Potter, would you like a pet? You’re allowed an owl, cat, or toad.”

Harry didn’t think a toad sounded particularly interesting. He’d never owned any sort of pet before, but his neighbor, Mrs. Figg, owned several cats and from that impression, Harry suspected that he might not want to get a cat either, as Harry recalled her cats being particularly smelly and tiring after you spent several hours around them, but perhaps that was just Mrs. Figg herself. That left an owl, and Harry did think owls were rather interesting from what he’s learned in school.

As he followed McGonagall into Eeylops’ Owl Emporium, Harry was awed at the number of birds he saw. He saw a few brown owls that he thought he recognized as barn owls, , sitting next to a shorter breed he heard someone call a tawny owl. Finally, he saw a beautiful white owl sitting alone on a perch at the far end of the store. He approached slowly, but didn’t avert his gaze. The proprietress appeared behind him.

“Would you like to take that one out, then? See if she likes you?”

Harry nodded, and she swung the cage door open and held her hand out. The owl haughtily stepped onto the woman’s arm, which she then offered to Harry. He cautiously put his own arm out, and the owl moved gracefully to perch on him.

The owl’s taloned grip was tight, but not painful, and Harry gingerly offered his other hand as he would to a puppy, and she nipped him lightly. Harry took this as permission to pet her, and stroked her back and head lightly.

“She seems to like you,” McGonagall said from behind him.

Harry turned to the proprietress. “I’ll take her,” he said in a rush of impulse. “How much…?”

“A present from me,” McGonagall said, and Harry looked up to find her actually smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this work caused you to have feelings, kindly put those feelings in the box below and we will take care of them for you.

**Author's Note:**

> It's a bit short, I know, but I couldn't find a good chapter break spot further on in what I've written so far.
> 
> Comments? Criticism? Suggestions? All are welcome and encouraged. Don't crush my ego too hard, though.


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